


Listen to Me

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Series: So I Can Help You Heal [1]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Flynnposter, temporary deafness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: Varian goes temporarily deaf after the events of Flynnposter.Quirin does not know that he went deaf or the real reason as to why the explosion happened, and Varian can't figure out for the life of him what exactly his father is on about.
Relationships: Quirin & Varian (Disney)
Series: So I Can Help You Heal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642591
Comments: 34
Kudos: 270





	Listen to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on my previous story! I'm working on that too, don't worry.  
> Here's another small unrelated story that popped in uninvited while I laughed and gushed throughout the entirety of Flynnposter.  
> Which I also loved.

“You told me you had it under control, Varian!”

Quirin exclaimed, straining with difficulty to keep the exasperation and stress out of his voice.

Earlier today, the man had been spending a quiet evening finishing the crop reports when a sudden explosion and a brilliant gleam of neon green burst through the clear night sky right above the castle in the distance, followed by a strong shockwave that shook the house and a series of dazzling fireworks.

Quirin had initially stared in wonder and awe, before conveniently remembering that Varian was at the castle. A raw, familiar cluster of endless worry and despair overwhelmed him, the same kind he had felt intermittently and continuously ages ago whenever Varian’s inventions blew up or caused havoc.

Was his son hurt?

Was anyone else hurt?

How much time did he have?

After dropping everything and rushing to the castle, Quirin was tremendously relieved to see that his son was largely unscathed, save for a messy black tinge around his startled eyes that made him look like Ruddiger. The father would have joked good-naturedly about it after that wave of relief, had he not felt slightly annoyed and the sudden urge to tell him off. Quirin’s stern, heavily concerned expression had wiped the frustrated look from Varian’s face, and something in his demeanor crumpled, his face slack and saddened eyes deflated with shock, as though his confidence had quickly fled him upon seeing him and he would sooner curl onto himself than face him. Familiar with the look, Quirin had sighed wearily, face twisted in a disappointed scowl. “Not again, Varian.”

He had turned away, not seeing Varian’s reaction, his eyes surveying the damage and quickly assessing that no one else had been hurt.

So after quickly excusing them, Quirin had firmly held onto his son’s shoulder and steered him for home, evading the large man’s (he believed his name was Lance) uncoordinated yells of apology and the young girls’ attempts to explain.

If only he had stayed to listen.

“I always tell you to be careful. I tell you to triple check your things for this exact reason! Varian, you simply can’t afford to put yourself and others in danger like this!”

He allowed his voice to heighten, struggling to keep it at a neutral volume. He couldn’t stifle the throbbing pound of blood coursing through his veins at the mere thought of someone getting hurt, of his son getting hurt. Quirin made sure to try to look Varian directly in the eye as he said it-he wanted to send the message home, hammer it in so his son would at least consider the risks. Here he was thinking his son had matured from the past year without him, since his last big mistake-but no, Varian had to go and repeat them!

“You knew the compound was explosive, and yet you brought it to the castle!”

Yes, Varian had been rambling on about “the rooster,” and how it would warn the kingdom in case of an emergency. Quirin had approved of it, proud that his son was working on such an important project that would contribute greatly to the safety and welfare of the kingdom.

Now, Quirin could only feel fear and uncertainty well within his heart, laden with disappointment. Varian clearly was not as ready as he had originally thought he was. It wasn’t that Quirin didn’t trust his son-but he couldn’t afford to let him keep endangering others like this, couldn’t afford to turn a blind eye to his…failures.

Quirin briefly paused his tirade to examine his son.

The boy stood in front of him, shrunken and diminutive, trembling slightly as he kept his head slightly bowed, enough to peek up at him through the tussled hair with large, despairing eyes.

His shoulder hunched as his posture did, his hands fretfully clasped close to each other, rubbing his arm as he usually did when he was nervous. His brows knitted in a combination of shame, anxiety, and concentration that Quirin could not quite comprehend.

Varian’s figure trembled slightly, his mouth twisted and lips pursed in a vain attempt to not betray his emotion, but he had silently nodded to everything his father was saying, slowly and shamefully, as if simply allowing everything to sink in despite avoiding his father’s eyes entirely.

The father could not help but instinctively feel as though something was off, that this was more than his son’s nervous pose.

He began to tell him off again, casting subtle sideways glances.

Varian’s eyes tracked his every frustrated pace and wave of the hand, fixated intensely on his face, occasionally flitting away when he thought his father was not looking or immersed in his rant, confusion and concentration etched into his face. And then the unthinkable happened: Varian turned his eyes to the ground and continued to nod, even after Quirin had stopped talking.

Almost as though he didn’t realize the man had stopped talking.

Quirin suddenly realized something with a surge of impatient fury.

Varian wasn’t listening.

Did his son not take his concern for him seriously? Had he just grown tired of him saying the same thing, and was ignoring him as he poured his heart out? What could he possibly be thinking of right now?

Was this why he had offered no defense? No “I’m sorry, Dad”? No “I promise it won’t happen again”? No argument that this wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place?

He allowed this quick judgement to grab the reigns of his already heightened distress. He could handle Varian’s consistent assurances, his occasional clumsiness, his endless apologies. He would even accept Varian arguing with him. But this…this _thing_ he was doing, of pretending to listen when he was just mindlessly nodding to everything he was saying…

Did he want things to go back to the way they were, only worse? Did his father’s words mean nothing to him?

“VARIAN!” He suddenly bellowed, slamming his fist angrily down into the wooden table and scaring the living daylights out of the poor boy.

“LISTEN TO ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU!”

Quirin honestly did not know what reaction he was expecting, but it definitely was not for his teenage son to yelp in sheer fright and burst into tears, arms instinctively curled up against his face as though he had expected to be hit.

The man froze with his eyes wide and mouth agape in a rare expression of open bewilderment, paralyzed with shock as he slowly registered his son breaking down in front of him.

Varian trembled uncontrollably with trepidation, hiccuping with soft, pained, heart-wrenching sobs that he desperately tried to stifle with his hands clasped against his mouth. Quick successive streams of tears cascaded down his stained face, spreading the dark taint of the earlier explosion over his cheeks and nose.

And his eyes-his beautiful, inquisitive, one-of-a-kind eyes-were filled to the brim with a sorrowful anguish and utter fear, fear of him.

Quirin gasped in horror, yanking his bloodied hand away from where he had made a dent in the table (that sounded like a problem for future him) and immediately closing the distance between them, crumbling to his knees so he was at his son’s level and throwing his arms around him to crush him against his being.

“Oh son, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I love you so much.” He repeated softly like a broken record, everything that had blossomed in his heart from his son’s reaction stumbling out in a disordered ramble. His heart thundered in his chest, consuming itself with regret.

To his great surprise, Varian crumbled to his knees and began to wail harder, burying his face against his chest as though desperate for the closure. His small hands clutched at him desperately, his thin fingers digging feebly into his clothes.

Gulping away the sudden onslaught of tears and quelling the parental sirens going off in his head, Quirin wound his strong arms around Varian tighter, cradling the boy’s head securely against his throat and underneath his chin as he fully encapsulated him in the warm embrace.

“Sh, baby boy, sh.”

His hands powerfully stroked through the stray dark locks and rubbing the back of the boy’s neck affectionately, keeping him pressed against his chest as he shakily tried to hush him, coax him, soothe him somewhat.

Quirin closed his eyes as he felt Varian’s tears soak through his tunic, every sob like a stab to the heart, and turned his face into the messy hair to finally allow his tears to slip in turn.

How dare he yell at his son like that? He had no right…no right to scare him the way that he did!

He had jumped to conclusions, assumed the worst out of his son…he had promised himself he would try to be better, try not to ignore his son’s hurting.

Instead, he made him cry and might have just frightened him from ever telling him anything again.

As the heavy guilt in his gut transformed into seething self-loathing, Quirin inhaled shakily and pulled Varian’s face away ever so slightly. Using his thumbs to wipe away the still-leaking tears, Quirin cradled his face delicately between his large palms and carefully planted a tender kiss on the space between his eyes.

Pressing their foreheads together, Quirin looked into his eyes-gently, kindly this time, as though coaxing a frightened animal.

“Sh, it’s ok. I know, I know I was awful. I’m sorry. Are you ok?”

Varian didn’t answer, seeming to not have heard him. His terrified blue eyes flickered up and down, piercing right through his soul. His breathing was still interspersed with breathless sobs and sniffles, and his lips trembled in an unsuccessful attempt to quell them.

Varian pulled away from him, moving to miserably wipe away the soot from his face, and Quirin was again overcome with shock at the realization that he hadn't even given his son reprieve to recover from the incident, hadn't thought to tell him to wash up, or even ask if he was alright.

Which stung another fret at the back of his mind-why wasn't Varian saying anything?

"Son." He managed. "I need you to tell me if you're ok."

No answer. He was still acting like he hadn't heard him, attention focused on rubbing his dirty, torn sleeve against his trousers.

Quirin frowned in concern and confusion. Varian had no reason to not give him an answer, and it wasn't like his son to ignore him. 

"Varian, son." He tried again, cautious so as to not raise his voice as he did before. He leaned forward and grabbed his son's arms, and that prompted Varian's head to shoot up, eyes fixating on his with full attention as though he was noticing him for the first time or not expecting him to do it.

Quirin's jaw dropped as a sickening thought dawned on him, more urgent and crippling than the realization before.

"Varian... can you hear me?" 

It was a stupid question if what he assumed was true. Varian stared back at him mutely, eyes flitting over his moving lips, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to make out what he was saying. He opened his mouth hesitantly, then seemed to have thought twice as he quickly closed it again.

"No, no, son, speak to me. Tell me anything, _please_." Quirin urged desperately, cupping his cheeks again. 

If Varian could vaguely make out what he was saying, he didn't show any indication of it. Or perhaps he was afraid of answering wrong?

Thinking quickly, Quirin grabbed the crop report he found nearby and a quill. Turning it over, he scribbled quickly: 

_Tell me what happened_.

"I can't hear." His son spoke quietly, his diminutive voice cracked from disuse and trembling with uncertainty. He seemed deeply unsettled about speaking without quite hearing his voice.

Though he was hoping for more explanations, Quirin's urgent gaze softened with sympathy, and he wrote:

_Why didn't you tell me earlier? Or write?_

Varian's eyes flooded with tears again, his face slackened with a forlorn, depressed countenance. His jaw quivered and he inhaled sharply. "I didn't know what to say."

_How long?_

Varian hesitated, and Quirin frantically tapped the quill against the parchment near his face-not in an irritated manner, but one that relayed deep concern.

"Since-since the explosion. Lance got it too. I told him not to put too much." Varian's weak voice shook again, incoming sobs beginning to fracture his sentences. Sniffling, he insecurely held his hand near his face, ready to wipe away his own tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I really am."

Quirin did a double take, blinking in disbelief before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Told him not to put too much? So the explosion-had not been because of Varian?

Quirin gently raised his hand to clasp around his son's smaller one, moving it away from his face and lifting his chin, his stare serious and inquiring yet no longer stern.

He pointed to the first thing he wrote: _Tell me what happened._

So Varian told him everything.

As his son quietly detailed everything that had happened before the explosion, Quirin was overwhelmed by another reeling bout of self-reproach and crippling remorse clawing its way up his chest.

He had immediately assumed that his son had been the cause of the incident, and marched into the scene without so much as a word or gesture of comfort, given his son one glance and determined that he was fine without asking him or even checking him over himself, proceeded to chew him out over something that was not his fault as he stood confused, frightened, and desperate. Then, as though that wasn't enough, he had yelled at him, terrified him, blamed him for something he had just assumed.

How could he think that way about his own son?

Quirin should have known. He had seen how careful and responsible Varian was being lately about his creations; he should have had faith in him instead of reverted to berating and dejecting him when he was desperate for guidance and comfort. He should have cleaned him up, hugged him to death, expressed that he was relieved before calmly asking him what happened, consoled him when he saw his distress.

He could only imagine how his son must have felt at having being assumed the one in the wrong again, feeling belittled and unheard, unable to speak to or hear from him.

How could he claim that he was trying to be a better father, when he only made his son feel worse?

"Daddy?"

His son's small hand tentatively patted his larger one, and Quirin looked up in staggering surprise.

Those eyes stared up at him pleadingly, riddled with an uncertainty and timidity that weaved into the reluctant voice and shook him to his core.

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

Confounded speechless, Quirin merely attempted a small, consoling smile, closing his eyes and shaking his bowed head as he chuckled softly, sadly.

Varian held out his arms, and Quirin immediately scooped him off the ground, cuddling him tightly against his chest as he allowed his tears to flow freely again. He felt his son's arm wrap around his neck in turn, and his sigh of contentment was a soothing balm to his aching heart as he turned his nose against his neck.

"You're not going to make me stop inventing, are you?" His son asked in a barely audible murmur.

Quirin tightened his hold, ducking his head to bury his face against his brazen hair- his smoke-smelling, grimy, forever disheveled mop of unruly hair-and shook his head again.

He felt Varian relax peacefully against him, sinking into the embrace again as his breathing stilled into steady, calm sighs, and his tear-stained face loosened to a much needed sleep. Quirin gazed down at the small bundle of growing boy in his strong, burly arms, heart alight with fondness and pride as he preciously peppered a few tender-loving kisses to his forehead.

At least one of them would be sleeping peacefully tonight.

He still had to mend the rift he had made between his son and himself, a rift that he knew would persist for the next few days no matter how much Varian tried to hide it.

...And then the table, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Quirin, seriously, why would you think that?  
> I love Disney parents lol.  
> Should I make a second chapter in Varian's POV? Let me know in the comments below!


End file.
